#1: Tower Grove by Sarah
Rogers. Sarah Rogers works
as a freelance designer and
videographer in St. Louis. She
recently graduated with honors
from Southern Illinois University
Edwardsville. Her focus was in
broadcast and video, but she
has always had a passion for
photography. She loves to
“geek out” over plastic and
toy cameras. Her favorites
are the Holga 120, Diana
lomo and multiframe
camera. Tower Grove
and Donuts (page XX)
were taken with a Holga
120N, which is a light,
primitive styled camera
that was popular in
China in the 1970’s.

Dear Readers, Viewers, etc.

Welcome to CEllA’s *first* Round Trip. Like
any birthing experience, Issue #01 has turned out
all gritty and surreal . . . After all this collecting
and communicating and editing and promoting,
we’ve been left a little sweaty and shaken. The work
involved in putting together CEllA’s first go-round,
the website as well as the print format layout, was
monsterous, but it was time (lots of time) wellspent. CEllA’s first trip, Issue #01, is especially
packed - “deluxe” perhaps - and will (hopefully)
blow your mind.
Please enjoy this gathered collection of
submitted artwork, poetry, and flash fiction from
talented creators around the world. We have
an exclusive set of incredible photos by Mario
Scattoloni. We have lots of funky collages, abstract
paintings, sketches and even an exclusive comic
strip. The writing contained within is diverse and

#2: Pripyat Ferris
Wheel by Oscar
Mannbro. Oscar
Mannbro is a Swede living
in Kiev, Ukraine and a
dedicated photographer,
specializing mainly in
documentary and street
photography. Professionally, he is a Senior Systems
Developer and Project Manager for an IT-company
specializing in mail order and e-commerce systems.
When not in front of the computer or behind the
camera, he enjoys walks along the wide streets of Kiev,
art, music and an occational beer at any of the local
pubs.
NOTE: The ferris wheel depicted has never been used.
The small amusement park in central Pripyat, located
about two miles from the Chernobyl Nuclear Power
Plant, north of Kiev in Ukraine, was scheduled to open
on the 1st of May, 1986. However, less than a week
before, reactor number four exploded resulting in the
worst nuclear accident ever. Within 36 hours, all 50.000
citizens of Pripyat were evacuated, with a promise to
be returned within two days. Pripyat and Chernobyl
remain inside the “radioactive exclusion zone” where
special permits are needed to enter. See more at the
gallery: www.pripyat.nu/

moving. We’ve included a few feature stories:
notes on a hypertext/fiction piece inspired by
Milton Bradley; the story of an artistic couple from
Columbia who share visions; and personal input
from editors of the ever-erratic online journal,
Dogzplot.
This first trip has been adventure out the
whazoo -- a learning experience for future CRT
issues (which promise to be smaller). Please take
the time to note the bios of artists and authors
that interest you; check out their sites, blogs,
etc. and support the hell out of them. Here, we
have priorities: 1.) presenting the visual next to
literary texts especially via leads allowed through
the digital medium; 2.) giving artists - visual and
literary - a little room to strut (if they need to do
that sort of thing).
ENJOY!
~ C.

Jee Soo Park, age 16, hopes to continue studying Fine Arts and design. She has recently
acquired a passion for Photography. She uses a Canon EOS 400D with only two kit lenses and likes
to do a bit of post processing, mainly on Photoshop Lightroom.

4

whiskey and pears part
the game. he can deny a
house on assignment.

handful of held roomsâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;
lavender beaches reach through
each sailor-made blaze.

E.C. Messer is currently pursuing her MFA
in writing at the School of the Art Institute of
Chicago. She originally hails from California
where she received a BA in Theatre from UCLA.
Her work can be found in elimae and in At-Large
Magazine. She also co-edits a weekly online
literary mag, Lark(!) (www.larkmag.com).

5

6

solar being and time 4

Christophe Casamassima is the editor/proprietor of the almost resurrected Furniture Press, and
the Literary Arts director at Towson Arts Collective in Baltimore, Maryland. He also is the author of two
collections of poetry: the Proteus (Moria) and Joys: A catalogue of disappointments (BlazeVOX).

solar being and time 8

7

35mm (a foreign film)
by Gwendolyn Joyce Mintz

Date Due by Matt Anserello

The director yells action and the man takes off his head. Black coffee bursts from the hydrants,
yet turns blood red as it fills the streets. The children are already smiling. Tomorrow there will be no
butter nor will the hen lay fresh eggs. The woman with only a left eye carries a basket of tears the eye
did not cry. The director yells cut. The day begins again.

Matt Anserello is from Indianapolis, Indiana.

8

Nuits Mannequin and My Shadow by Mario Scattoloni
Gwendolyn Joyce Mintz is a fiction writer and poet. Her work has appeared in places.
Visit her blog at www.gwennotes.blogspot.com.

9

You Are the Bluest Light by Nichole Jenna

10

Suzanne Frischkorn listens closely
by Alex Stolis

to every note of exile in guyville and when everything flies but the clock,
she reminds herself of broken windows and the half moon eyes
of her children
watching her every move. she waits to see the lesson in the way
an ash curves from an abandoned cigarette, reaches out to touch
his arm,
feels the cold snap of truth. snatches of new york conversation
climb to the back of her memory, and thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s the sound of a dime
dropping into an antique jukebox,
the scratch as needle hits vinyl â&#x20AC;&#x201C; a pop, a click and everything starts
to sound like a divorce song. she falls back, disappears into herself without
a trace.

Alex Stolis lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota.

11

Carrie Meadows worked in advertising

and marketing as a copywriter – that’s
where she learned the nuts and bolts
of print and web design applications.
She was introduced to hypertext in
the fall of 2007 when she took a course
with an early writer of the medium, Ed
Falco (read more on Falco: http://www.
eastgate.com/people/Falco.html).

Carrie said: I was immediately excited
by the chance to work with visuals
and creative writing, together, in one
project. Hypertext ups the ante further
by demanding reader interaction,
something that makes complete sense
in light of the popularity of blogs and
sharing sites like Flikr and YouTube,
where countless people, strangers,
share ideas and interact with the ideas
of others via online posts.
Print is Carrie’s primary medium, and
she writes both poetry and fiction. She
experiments with flash fiction and
prose poetry. C.D. Wright and Matthea
Harvey are a couple of her current
poetic influences, and she’s also a big
fan of Alice Munro.
Carrie said: I can’t say that my
influences match up with my style
completely, but I think my writing is
often a good fit for hypertext, because I
tend to think of my work, both in prose
and poetry, in terms of small units
creating a whole. Madison Smartt
Bell calls this “modular narrative,” but
others like Munro use the technique all
the time, often creating stand-alone
stories that gain additional power when
placed alongside others. So writing a
story like “Operation Voodoo” came as
a result of these “modular” influences.
At present, Carrie is working on a
collection of poems and a novella, one

12

of which will serve as her MFA thesis at
Virginia Tech.
Carrie said: The real appeal of
hypertext for me is the medium’s
ability to attract a new kind of reader.
I’m not sure that creating a hypertext
piece enhances the reading experience
for everyone, but it does help literary
types to connect with folks who don’t
spend a lot of time in the dusty stacks
of libraries. Amazon’s new Kindle
gets at this in a way, encouraging
people to carry around books like they
carry music, on a digital device. And
mtvU did something similar when
they named John Ashbery their poet
laureate—they provide poems via video
that, while not interactive, target a new
kind of audience for a literary artist. I

a single line of poetry could be the start
of the poem, the middle, the end, or all
three? Most importantly, if hypertext
gets more people excited about
literature, and if it challenges literary
artists to think beyond the black and
white terms of books and pages, then
it’s done our culture a terrific service.
Carrie’s inspiration for “Operation
VooDoo” was Operation, the Milton
Bradley board game.

Carrie said: I found it while cleaning
out a closet and, for some reason, the
whole concept of the game seemed

. . . the interactive
capabilities of hypertext
suggest that poems and
stories are not, as we’ve for a
long time perceived them, fixed forms.
say all this to get at what I think is key
about hypertext: it delivers literature to
a huge audience of readers accustomed
to following their own search prompts
and link choices to information,
entertainment and communication
online. For this kind of reader, watching
or reading text isn’t enough, and the
interactive capabilities of hypertext
suggest that poems and stories are
not, as we’ve long-time perceived them:
fixed forms. The notion is, I think, a
little postmodern, and I think it’s good
for writers to give up some control
regarding narrative sequencing, for
example. I like that hypertext involves
a lot of what if ‘s: what if the character
didn’t know x before he did y, or what if

wildly macabre to me in a way I hadn’t
recognized before. Also, my copy of the
game had many missing parts, with
random replacement pieces like the
toothpick I mention in the story that
replaces the game’s funny bone. I set
out to create a story that plays with
the notion of what a character might
do if his human parts were replaced
with foreign objects. I wanted
readers to “build” a character
with nonhuman parts and
discover how that might affect
daily life for him.
Carrie used artwork from three
different digital artists in this hypertext
creation.
continued next page . . .

Those words Jim said—Baby, I got to experience new
things—burrowed out the loving parts of me, riddled my body
with wormholes, echoes. New things, he said. New job, new
city, new woman. When it was still Jim and me—me and Jim,
we—we played Operation on nights too cold to leave the
carpeted warmth of our apartment. We played even after
we lost the funny bone—it must have slipped out of the
box. Jim replaced it with the heart of a toothpick, pointed
tips broken off. He left the ends splintered and frayed; I
could never free it from its bone-shaped cavity without
tripping the buzzer and lighting the patient’s nose. But
I’ve been practicing.
I’m hollow now, carved of my center, and Jim—he
has no idea what I’ve learned to do. I’m a specialist
of long-distance voodoo. I provide new organs for a
man who craves new things. Transplants to help Jim
understand what he lost when he left me.
— Naomi

LIVE ONLINE at: www.cellasroundtrip.com/operation_voodoo

13

continued . . .

Carrie said: I think a medium like
hypertext is great for collaboration—
if I’m not good at one aspect of the
project, why not bring in an expert
to make the piece better? That’s my
philosophy anyway.
She did, however, create the rest of
the artwork and construct the actual
site without assistance. She had to
make constant revisions to the text
and design in order to make sure
they “talked to one another in an
honest way.”
Carrie said: It’s not enough to convert
text to hypertext; the content, design
and interactivity must work together
to create something bigger and better
than each part. In thinking about the
storytelling process, the medium
challenges writers to consider design
and interactivity as two additional
elements of craft, just like character
or point of view.
Carrie used “chapters” in the story as
“relics of old ways of thinking” about
a story. She liked the idea of letting
the reader build the narrative in any
order he or she chooses. She didn’t
write the chapters in a chronological
order or following any sort of
dramatic arc because she doesn’t
expect readers to approach them in
such a way.

Carrie said: And yet, the chronology
builds, as does the dramatic tension;
if, say, the reader first sees Jim’s
police-ordered psychiatric evaluation
then his altercation with the police—
the sequencing implies that Jim has
had more problems and is in bigger
trouble than the narrative actually
details. In this way, I’ve tried to
work with the space around the text,
the implications, suggestions and
possible scenarios readers might
imagine based on the order in which
they read the story. I believe that
the real interactive element of this
hypertext is rooted in the reader’s
imagination, in how he or she sees
the narrative unfold beyond the text
itself. That’s why the story has no
ending in a traditional sense; I want
the readers to supply it, based on the
events and circumstances they’ve
been given.
Carrie said: I think hypertext is
great for contemporary literature,
for readers, and for writers. But, as
an editor for an online journal of
digital writing and art, I’ve become
increasingly worried by pieces that
feel like games, hypertexts that
prioritize aesthetics and technology
over good writing. Conversely, I’ve
seen a lot of hypertexts that are
nothing more than traditional, print
text converted to a digital format. I

guess I’d hate for the medium to get
caught in the entertainment trap—
I’d rather see it challenge readers and
writers to utilize all the new avenues
the digital medium offers.
Overall, I’m excited about the
possibilities. We’ve always had cult
writers who receive little or no critical
attention in their lifetimes, but now,
through digital mediums, writers can
“publish” their work on a personal
website or read a poem on YouTube.
In many ways, I think we’re looking
at a whole new way to publish. And
while I don’t think the big houses will
find themselves without book buyers
any time soon, I am glad that the
publishing world is becoming more
multidimensional. I think it’s good
for writers and readers.
Carrie Meadows studies poetry
and fiction at Virginia Tech’s MFA
Program for Creative Writing. She
is a winner of the Poetry Society of
Virginia Award sponsored by the
Academy of American Poets, and
her work has been nominated for
the upcoming edition of Best New
Poets. Her publications include the
hypertext collection of poems, (NON)
sense for to from Eva Hesse, in The
New River Journal of Digital Writing
and Art, and fiction forthcoming in
Fifth Wednesday Journal. •

LIVE ONLINE at: www.cellasroundtrip.com/operation_voodoo
Vernon Frazer has published eight books of poetry, including the longpoem IMPROVISATIONS,
and three books of fiction. His work has appeared in Aught, Big Bridge, Drunken Boat, First Intensity,
Golden Handcuffs Review, Jack Magazine, Lost and Found Times, Moria, Otoliths and many other
literary magazines. His most recent books of poetry are Bodied Tone and Holiday Idylling. His web site
is http://vernonfrazer.com. Frazer is married and lives in South Florida.

>

14

from RANDOM AXIS by Vernon Frazer

15

Roses On Toast
By Jeff Harrison

Jeff Harrison has publications from
MAG Press, Writers Forum, Persistencia
Press, and Furniture Press. His poetry has
appeared in Sentence: a Journal of Prose
Poetics, Moria, Otoliths, Big Bridge, and
NOON: journal of the short poem.

by C.L. Bledsoe
A being encounters conflict with other being/s, self, environment, etc. Conflict spurs movement
either towards, away from, or alongside conflict. Movement resolves conflict or reveals it to be
irresolvable, bearable or unbearable. Features of being. Implied sex roles. Descriptions of interiors
of rooms, beings, thoughts, landscapes, also, symbolically representative of problem. Scenes tell
stories or don't. Summary moves or bogs down. Adverbs hinder or help. Being ends journey or
begins or refuses journey. Conflict is resolved or begun or accepted or refused. Descriptions of
scenery become more pleasing or less so, changes denoting resolution or lack thereof. Being is at
rest, or beginning to move, or in perpetual motion or unable to move. Conflict ends or becomes
all consuming, never ending, is ignored or accepted.

C.L. Bledsoe is the author of _____(want/need) (available at: planbpress.com/bledsoewant.
html) and Anthem. He is an editor for Ghoti Magazine (www.ghotimag.com).
Danny Glix struggles with the meaninglessness of existence and values cosmic wonder/
speculative theory of ultimate empirical purpose, as a worthwhile endeavor. Hobbies include tripping
hard and playing with claydough, also staying indoors.Â See more at www.dannyglix.com/artwork.

18

19

Chip / by Danny Glix

Sliver of Mind by Danny Glix

William Soule is an emerging
writer from the Rocky Mountain
Regions of Utah. He has had works
published in the Edinburgh-based
publication, Read This Magazine,
and also in Pens on Fire. He can be
reached at:
f_ll_nth_bl_nk@hotmail.com
Jim Fuess has had hundreds
of group shows and over 40 solo
shows over his 32 year artistic career.
Known for his vividly colored abstract
paintings, he also has a series of black
and white paintings which are an
exercise in going back to the basics
of form and structure. He is striving
for grace and fluidity, movement and
balance. He likes color and believes
that beauty can be an artistic goal. A
lot of his work is anthropomorphic.
More of his work may be seen at
www.jimfuessart.com.

In the black bonfirey night they stood, jacketed and swaddled.
Cora sucked on a woolen mitten, gnawing at a loose thread,
not liking the texture in her mouth, but enjoying the sensation
that she might just retch. Jason was whooping. They watched
as their father nailed a Catherine wheel to the brittle fence.
Mum was baking the potatoes, frying the sausages, with the
back door open so that the aroma encircled them all. Cora’s
stomach growled. She was hungry. She felt forever empty no
matter how much she consumed. She touched her stomach,
large and round and stupid. If she were thinner the kids
at school would stop teasing her, then she wouldn’t feel
so hollow. This was the circle that spun in her mind as the
Catherine Wheel twisted on it own sparking journey.
She wondered when they could eat. It was later than usual; the
hunger pangs had become rumbling jags inside her. Dutifully
she oohed as the sky became fleetingly full of green stars and
yellow sparks.
“The sausages are burning.”
“Well just keep them going for a bit can you?” said Dad.
“Not for too much longer, else they’ll be black.”
Dad looked up from where he was crouched on the ground,
spearing a rocket stalk
into the near frozen ground. “You look gorgeous.”
He winked, and the children followed his gaze to the back door
where, illuminated in a slab of yellow light, stood their mum,
just their mum.
Jason “wit whooed” and they all laughed. Except Cora, who
stood, empty and lonely. And when Dad handed her a sparkler
that fizzed and shook out a million white-hot stars, she wrote
it in fire against the night sky, the echo of the taunts she heard
every day.
“Cora Marks is a fat bitch and must die.”

22

yellow house lady by Mario Scattoloni

Sara Crowley has had fiction published by Pulp.Net, elimae, flashquake and a variety of
other lovely places. Her novel in progress was shortlisted for the 2007 Faber/Book Tokens Not Yet
Published Award. She blogs at: asalted.blogspot.com/ .

23

abstractus
abstractus is the coming together
of Mauricio Vélez A. and Ximena
Stevens, two young artists who
have developed a junction of
perceptions since early 2002.
Essentially, their work draws from
the use of collective thoughts and
interpretations
from
life’s
distinctive array of facets,
comprised by emotional crossing
motivated by their relationship
(they are married) and distinct
aesthetic experiences. Abstractus
is the result of a spontaneous
process, initiated 1995, when they
first met and started developing
their ideas in college. They
followed
different
academic
paths and acquired distinct
experiences. Mauricio left college
and advertising after working
in a multinational agency, and
Ximena received a Marketing and
Advertising degree then worked in
the financial market. Finally, they
found each other again, both at
similar points in life, both looking
for a sense of identity.
In 2000, they decide to start a
new life together and ventured to
Europe. They settled in Barcelona,
Spain and began a shared
exploration about their place and
mission in this world through art.
They traveled throughout Europe
and came back to Colombia to
reaffirm their roots. In 2002, they
decided to condense all of their
experimentation (personal and
aesthetic) within a concept, and
Abstractus was born, their own
conception of life through art. It
has been an evolutionary process.

24

As self-taught artists, they
acknowledge the hard work and the
struggle to find a place within the
art world, especially in Colombia,
but their efforts and the quality
of their art have opened doors for
them. They consider their work an
endeavor that has allowed them to
promote work around the world,
and feel that with each Abstractus
art piece purchased or donated,
they leave a part of themselves.
Abstractus’ technique is a result
of years of material research. They
mix conventional art supplies
with industrial materials – a kind
of “chemical formula” that allows
for their own aesthetic identity.
They take advantage of other
contemporary art disciplines

of social and personal analysis and
reflections through architectural
reinterpretations
have
been
recurrent. They claim: “Present
human existence as a paradoxical
fact is always the core of our
themes.”
Their artwork has allowed them
to support themselves so that
they may continue creating and
working as they strive to bring
their art to a wider audience.
With an exhibition in New York
(Chelsea) in 2005, they came to
realize the potential of their art
in the U.S. After some exploratory
visits, they have decided to move
to the U.S. and start a new stage.
In the summer of 2008, Abstractus
is all exploratory. •

- Angela Di Bello, Editor in Chief,
ArtsisSpectrum Magazine, New York

such as c-print, photography,
installation and performance. It
is a complex process that requires
them “to work on the inspiration.”
They admire renaissance artists
like Leonardo daVinci, but they
have also been influenced by
Dadaism, German Expressionism,
and American post war abstracts,
especially Franz Kline (for
Mauricio) and Rauchemberg (for
Ximena).Their love of modernist
architecture has also influenced
their work. Themes of Abstractus’
art are diverse, but a different kind

urban expedition 1 by Abstractus

25

unth
inka
b
by A
bstra le chron
olog
ctus
y
8

26

silence dissonance 15 by Abstractus

Commentary on Abstractus from Margarida Guell Baró, art historian:
“abstractus have understood that the artist doesn’t live only of inspiration, but also of
constant work, deep and conscientious analysis of the surrounding world, the reinterpretation
and rereading of all cultural and artistic tradition.”

abstractus
Ximena Steevans & Mauricio VĂŠlez A.

27

certainty of uncertain future by Abstractus

28

What Cedar Cannot
By Elizabeth Kate Switaj

Accept your hands
do not dig through my skin
and remove thin steal ropes
when I was shorter than you

your hands pulled around me

Could not stand without them
Taught me way to grow
but died before you could
remove the links I took for bones
you cut from your hand
and I know too late
Skinâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s grown over them

Elizabeth Kate Switaj teaches English at Shengda College of Zhengzhou University in
rural China. Her photographs can be found on the covers of the 2006 Box Car Poetry Anthology
and her own chapbook, The Broken Sanctuary: Nature Poems, which is available from Ypolita
Press. She is the editor of Crossing Rivers Into Twilight (www.critjournal.com). For more
information, see www.elizabethkateswitaj.net.

29

Mary Magdaleneâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;
The temptation Nikos Kazantazakis
whispered about into the ear of mankind
by Ava C. Cipri

I.

More than pure stillness:

His constant need to descend her dark
humanness, along the leafy vine
curled into an ear, weaving into collarbone
through passages of breastplate, along her spine,
stitching the heart, tying the inviting hips
toward the pelvic shield, and finally pouring
out from the birthing abyss to earth.
Wanting to harvest with His hands:
the ripened vegetable body, stemming
toward his own human groin.

II.

I put Catholicism on a shelf
to recover:
stop the not enough (chicken-pox-marks)
not this (seat time boy)

Ava C. Cipri is a member of the Pittsburgh Artist Registry; she currently teaches at Duquesne
University and facilitates writing workshops at the Pennsylvania Organization for Women in Early
Recovery (POWER). Ava is armed with an MFA from Syracuse University, where she served on the
staff of Salt Hill. Recent published and forthcoming work appears in 2River View, New Zoo Poetry
Review, WHR and Whiskey Island Magazine, among others.

30

eat the music by Nat Hall

Nat Hall is a Shetland-based poet with a passion for words & visual arts who was educated
on French & British shores. She post-graduated in Oxford and first taught in England. Yet her
nomadic soul led her to the Highlands & Islands, where she and her husband elected their chosen
home on the 60th Parallel. She is an active member of the Lerwick and Westside Writers Groups.
She is currently working on two major projects: one, literary and the other, collaborative with
"Garden2Garden" where verse turns into songs. Contact: nathall1@btinternet.com

31

Silence
By Jon Pineda

And if I tell no one,
Will something live on inside my silence.
- Larry Levis
I don’t remember what she named it,
so it’s better this way, the nameless joy
my sister, the oldest, had held onto
more than once, before returning it

of my Chucks. I walked outside, to first
light, to feed the rabbit whose name I must
have known then, whispered it on the way,
calling to its cage, until I found what could

to its prison of plywood & wire, faded
hay. I remember its droppings were round
like little planets. They resembled toppled
pyramids, fallen stones of the ancient

have been the heart, its flesh a brownish red,
spread like a dough across the dusted grass.
The longer I stared I couldn’t help thinking
it might rise, this deflated ball, to become

structures, lost in the ground’s straw lattice.
When our father had left on deployment,
older boys in the neighborhood would
come around tapping crooked thumbs

a piece of nebula spanning the gray foot,
another in the distance, more scraps of fur,
some burst of white, then its small, silly head.
The eyes were frozen, each a pale yellow,

against the storm windows. Anxious,
I’d awoken one morning to find the house
dark, the rest of the world content to dream.
I pulled on dungarees, patches our mother

twin suns in the universe of our dead lawn.
I felt like a little god, mischievous with my
catcher’s hands ungloved & nervous, choking
up on the shovel. I paused each time I
brought

had sewn on the knees, & wrenched
my head through the neck of a jersey.
I’d made All Stars the summer before,
my fingers now catching on the stray laces

the blade to the dirt, connecting with clay.
I smacked the earth, trying to assemble
the animal, & instead, remade this anger.
Years later, I think of those boys & of her,
yet to wake, unchanged by it all, together.

Jon Pineda is the author of THE TRANSLATOR’S DIARY (New Issues, 2008), winner of the Green
Rose Prize, and BIRTHMARK (Southern Illinois, 2004), winner of the Crab Orchard Award Series Open
Competition. For more information visit: www.jonpineda.com.

32

Craig LaRotonda was born and
raised in Buffalo, NY. He studied with
the internationally renowned illustrator,
Alan Cober, at The State University of
New York at Buffalo where he received
his B.F.A. in Art in 1992.
Craig currently works as professional
illustrator, painter and sculptor, dividing
his time between each endeavor. His
paintings and sculptures incorporate
mixed media and aging techniques
ultimately creating surreal figurative
works with a dark narrative and a
grotesque beauty. His distorted subjects
and creatures are captured in a timeless
space surviving the brutality of existence.
Craig’s artwork graces the walls of
famous homes including collectors
in France, Germany, Norway, Mexico,
France and Canada, as well as a host of
collectors in the U.S. His distinctive art
appears published in 3 feature-length
motion pictures through his relationship
with Film Art LA including the Academy
Award wining film Traﬃc (dir. By
Steven Soderbergh) as well as numerous
publications such as Time Magazine,
The Washington Post, The Village Voice,
Juxtapoz and The New York Times. His
work has been honored by the Society
of Illustrators in NY and Los Angeles as
well as Communication Arts and Print
Magazine.
Craig’s exhibitions include solo shows
in San Francisco, Los Angeles, New York
and Paris as well as inclusion in group
exhibits nationally and abroad.

For more info visit:

Revelation Studios

www.revelationart.net

Mephisto by Craig LaRotunda

33

Street Legal by Lisa Schnellinger

Lisa Schnellinger worked as a reporter, editor and overseas journalism trainer for 27 years and spent
the last five years of that career in Afghanistan, the Middle East, and Timor-Leste. She came to feel betrayed
by the manipulation of words, and for the past year turned full-time to what had been a sideline, photography.
She specializes in interpretive natural and cultural portraits - from the streets of Asia and Africa where she
worked, to the Appalachians where she now lives. More of her work and her contact info is on her web site
www.barakaphotos.com, and special galleries are posted at the evolving www.baraka-images.com.

34

Vicarious by Paul Kelley III

Anna Pavlova
By Ava C. Cipri

Stage light slides into Annaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s curved arms,
contained is a universe of spinning gears,
and burning stones. The ballet solo
tangled in my ribcage . . .
Listen to me as I tell you
I am her, the dying swan:
between these two worlds.
I died a hundred years ago, waving
urgent feathers in your face.
Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m back, after you turned the soil
over. The lilies are witness.
Bend your elbow on the ground.

Paul Kelley III is an illustrator and graphic designer descended from Western European immigrants
who settled in Boston, Massachusetts in the early 20th century. He is a member of the Breed Art Collective
and a contributor to the Pornsaints Church. In his art, he trys to blend his primary interests: baseball, rock
and roll, pin-ups and politics. He runs his own site at www.paulthethird.com.

35

Green Roof by John C. Dailey

John C. Dailey received his Ph.D. in Communication from the University of Missouri Columbia in 1998. His primary creative efforts lie in the area of psychoergonomics. In particular,
he is interested in the design of multimedia environments which communicate in interesting yet
comfortable ways. Johnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s creative interests include: interaction design, interactive storytelling and
writing with light. Prior to his career as a college professor, John spent over twelve years working
in live television production serving in every capacity from studio camera operator through
electronic graphics artist to on-air director.

36

Lice (after Rimbaud)
by William Doreski

Fever makes me numb, impersonal as the surf at Point Lobos where the cypress bleach to a
shade of bone I've never seen anywhere else. Why I should look, even for a moment, beyond the
snowy fields to California is a mystery surely born of disease.
The slur of tires on the highway and the tick of a battery-powered clock remind me that my
words originate in some world deeper than flesh. Pneumonia alone can't explain the distinction
between landscape and action that has alienated me from places I've tried to love.
Who believes in simple correspondences?
Not enough people in my life: the two avid fans I met in San Francisco, goggle-eyed and eager,
like me, to please; the woman in the subway whose hands, gnarled with arthritis, were the roots of
the same cypress Edward Weston photographed before I was born.
Only the physical world, a panting dog, leaves its wounds open and begs to be kissed.
My fever rises and falls like Mahler, leaving me pinned to the window where I watch the wind
tickle tall, red sequoias, combing snow from the branches the way sisters of famous French poets
once combed lice from their stormy hair.

William Doreskiâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s poems and essays have appeared recently in Harvard
Review, Notre Dame Review, Natural Bridge, and other journals. His most recent
collection is Another Ice Age (AA Publications, 2007). His personal blog is at
williamdoreski.blogspot.com. He can be reached at wdoreski@keene.edu.

37

Benjamin
Nardollili is a twentytwo year old writer currently
studying creative writing, history, and
philosophy at New York University. His work
has appeared previously in the Houston Literary
Review, Perigee Magazine, Canopic Jar, Lachryma: Modern
Songs of Lament, Poems Niederngasse, and Perspectives
Magazine. He is the poetry editor for West 10th Magazine at NYU
and maintains a blog at mirrorsponge.blogspot.com.

38

A Nine Year Old Reads the Paper
By Benjamin Nardolilli

Mr. Gonzalez is under
Three American soldiers were killed
Now for a limited time only,
Fire for failing to remember
Outside Baghdad, another
Boots and handbags
A conversation between
Was seriously wounded by a bomb
Are fifty percent off,
Him and a deputy attorney
And remains in critical condition,
This Thursday from six to ten
Three months ago, when
His family is holding a vigil back home
At Mortonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s discount basement
He learned of the resistance
Hoping for his recovery,
Off third and fifth, there
To prosecuting those cases.
The army has not released any names.
Is no minimum, come and beat the rush.

Hand by Danny Glix

39

The Traveler by Eva Forsten

40

Hurrying Towards Betty: A Dee Dee Dee
By Kirsten Orser

i.
swoon squares at night *
there must be tea
in between parts
* Betty appears with a giraffe
the throat
*
you must be asthmatic by now

*

scrabble games and days spent in bed
*
boy who liked you deadpan
*
I can’t help it
this is you

there must be a window
*
*
between salt and sugar

*

*

I don’t want to hear all those
some warm compress around
too many recombinations *

in a bloomfield with all your synapses connected by safety pins

*

if you wrap a gift

with more than four pieces of tape you are doing it wrong, but if you don’t taproot
*
root, root, and drag your knuckles along a wooden fence,
*
that is more wrong *
a good girl
smells like eucalyptus
will yell *

*

a good girl sits in the ear of a fairy

and a
*

*

root,

and the fairy

>

41

ii.
like a nonverbal girl
* everything I want to say no longer occurs in standard English
*
sublunary
* old, really antique you know? * the eclipse on the radio * the action of
the wind * it weighs heavy * on my
toes
* with a couple who look like plastic trashbags * shut the blinds when you go * Betty
started buying stones shaped like stomachs
*
began drinking warmed milk and still
the wind continued
* Betty outgrew
all her clothes * deprived herself of anything but spoonfuls of honey
boar
* a bad boy

* the heart of a wild

pulls his boxers up to his armpits

*

*

plays horseshoes in purgatory

funny how often people cry at the very thing they shouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t be crying about
syllables
*
blow against spines
*
crawl out of bed
you must always mention bed
*
the whole hour of it
*
man in a double-breasted suit or else day will be lonesomely sunny *
* for an equation write ABSENCE=PRESENCE

itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s painfully
* collecting

never blink at a neat
the absence of Betty

*

stop! * something new is happening to the brain
* pull plugs from the wall and insert
some LED Christmas lights
*
leave them in all year
*
like those families
in South Buffalo do
*
and everyone trick-or-treats in a neon glow *

42

iii.
Cattaraugus and so forth * just look at your face
*
no eyes
* might as well a small brown rabbit
*
matter of fact
*
two or three old fashioned Betties *

no eyes
*
all day,
sheer stockings
* as a
the first time cattaraugu

Betty moved her toe, the walnut in other rooms * well below her neck * even my own desire
is hypothetical: all
*
ears whooshed, legs went on as before
*
burned
the negligee right off me

*

a murmur crawled into bed

*

mine is a wooly caterpillar

*
syllable as wrong as it could be without getting too crowded
*
rose hued
*
ring for Wooly * how well the day goes
* wind watch * titles of really serious books
*
this might be the night after
* wink
*
into
his bed
* hands hold an echo
*
all hell
* Betty * when he went to sleep
* much mind
*
much to my surprise
* lots of room for wild
* digging
indeed, I dare say just about
*
every conceivable position * Non-mysterious
* either it does or does not exist * three questions feel like visual
* viruses
let me briefly touch top down bottom up

*

Y and also

*

Y occurs without X

*

Betty traces a triangle on the table, says: the meaning is in here

>

43

iv.
you mean everyone doesn’t think this way?

*

inside the head
*
house
*
once one moves inside the body
*
the
so called blue column where Betty hears a bell ringing
*
we see in color for example
* dry
cranberries because
*
the answer is not easy, nor
* biological heritage * the
somatosensory cortex, the reticular * pricking a second pain
*
sensitive dorsal horn
* phantom limbs are quite common
*
gods
have steel hooks inserted under muscles
*
Betty sees a straight stick bent
*
external to our brain but internal to our body
*
puzzle gray region, a learned
helplessness
*
do you drink?
*
this is a biography of Betty
*
Betty
likes her eggs poached, she likes anything she doesn’t need a knife for * Mr. Wooly likes steak
*
there are human sized holes in Mr. Wooly’s strip
* steak
*
accidented
eight legs
* a doll to swallow noise
*
there will be intimacy in this, at least
*
Betty

* with noise in her mouth * with wolfish *
the only cold feet in the bed *
two: foot each other *
something vulnerable—pinky toe
*
Wooly is not very
sensitive
*
how many anarchist does it take to put in a light bulb? Nobody takes Betty
seriously and everyone asks if she is for real, if she is real even
*
eventualities are even less
real
*
Betty

does more things * she tends to know if there’s a party but she tends to

44

*

she helicopters

v.
it was easier when she lived at *
Monday and Thursday, and occasionally pick up shifts
*
daffy drunk with a lemony feel
*
when Wooly talks the body
of coffee, Betty adores
*
a totally different reality now that it seems war might be
over
* that whole thing * Betty likes the Iranian boy down the street, Betty likes the way
she isn’t supposed to like him
*
the new
story sounds a lot like the old story
that’s really pissing me off

* the midget is the last to jump
*
is it Friday?
*
you can pick if you want to be a boy

*

or a girl, but you have to do it with feeling * the narrative keeps forgetting the character
*
but it was a little bit interesting
* that’s what you get Betty: two shots and a
vanilla latte
*
the neighbor’s built a bomb shelter
*
do you see any ghosty? *
it’s exciting, exciting times

*
Kristen Orser holds an MFA from Columbia College Chicago. She is on the editorial board
for South Loop Review and Reconfigurations (reconfigurations.blogspot.com/). Her work has
most recently appeared in If Poetry Journal, Indefinite Space, Ab Ovo, Cannot Exist, Columbia
Poetry Review, and elsewhere.

45

The Inventor by Eva Forsten

46

Beachcombers by Clyde Grauke

Clyde Grauke is a digital artist, a photographer, and a writer of ﬂash nonﬁction and poetry. His art
has been published in Cezanne’s Carrot and his poetry has been published in the Bitterroot International
Poetry Journal. He likes to use powerful images to bring fresh perceptions and new insights to
meaningful material. Clyde is a ﬁfth generation Texan who works as a quality analyst and lives in the
Dallas area with his wife. See more at: smudgefactor.gather.com and smudgefactor.deviantart.com.

47

Phoenix by Jim Fuess

48

theatre

by Michael A. Flanagan
the older kids stole an axe from the
fire station and i left with them. we split
the wood on the back door of the dewitt
theatre. an addled nine year old
classmate named john ruge
told me we'd watch movies
all afternoon, eat as much popcorn as we
wanted. the building was condemned,
a wreck soon to re-emerge as a
fast-food franchise. there was nothing
inside but a few mutilated posters.
the older kids laid quick and
menacing claim to them. on the 2nd floor
they broke walls with the red fire
axe. the floors groaned beneath
our feet. i began mumbling about being late
for dinner. no one paid much attention.
i pretended to know how to inhale the
cigarette they gave me. i listened
to them brag about motorcycle
gangs, about switchblades and
chains, tried to believe there would be
movies after all, that we'd find the screen
and the red velvet seats, or at least the
popcorn. i cursed ruge for his
general idiocy, cursed the older boys
for their boldness, cursed myself for
imagining the racket of every police
siren in town coming our way.

Michael A. Flanagan was born in the Bronx, N.Y. and raised in the New York
Metropolitan area. His poetry has appeared in many small press periodicals across the country,
including, most recently, Willard & Maple, Quercus Review, Cliffs Sounding, and Nerve Cowboy.
Contact: dfdandelion416@comcast.net.

49

Arturo from L.A.
by Philip Santa-Maria

I see you, Bandini, buying cheap sacks of oranges,
old and almost rotten, but you're short on money.
You peel them and wait for letters, responses, a contact.
You stare in a mirror and try to reassure yourself.
I see you stare at the milk truck driving by,
licking your lips, Bandini.
It's summer and the heat makes your shirt sticky.
You smile and wave at children who never wave back.
I know you sit in front of your typewriter at night
waiting for the convulsions, the spew
like a geyser in your hotel room, Bandini.
It would knock the roof off above you.
I sense what you would do without a roof,
typing about the girl who got away,
crying creation, acidic on your lips, Bandini.
You'd capture it in a jar, scream it out to Our Lady.
I see the way you turn your head when they drive by,
those Ford Roadsters, Bandini. You turn and think
about life washing onto beaches, onto shores,
about life draining into pipes, into sewers.
I want to approach you with all of my money
and have you write about all your dreams, Bandini.
Enough money to pay the rent and get a car.
Enough to take you down to Mexico.

Philip Santa-Maria is a Cuban 22 year-old drummer and law student who currently lives
in Miami, Florida. Heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s had works published in George Mason Universityâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Hispanic Culture Review and online literary e-zine, Words on Paper. He has degrees in Sociology/Anthropology and
English from Florida International University. He can be reached at: kmartjesus@yahoo.com.

50

51

Wall Hanging by John C. Dailey

52
Donuts by Sarah Rogers

Eros in the Café, Annotating His Non-Illustrated Dream Book
By Valerie Fox
Artist’s Model: Alone in a waterfront warehouse
with damp cardboard and the smell of French
ultramarine. (buy goats-milk, sugar)

Love Hotel: With an Alps theme, an identifiable
person will be carrying a thermos in one hand
and your hand in the other.

Ceiling and Shower Curtain: You will find
pleasure at the expense of another.

More Fever: You will be disappointed by
the scenes of Europe. You will be unable to
appreciate the chance for a change in elevation
and ventilation.

Corsican: Throw in a bit of Napoleon at year’s
end.
Fever: You felt awake (and insane) like there
were 99 variables present and accounted for, just
one remained. (it holds the secret to my cure)

Packaged Goods (assorted): To visit a bookshop
indicates that you will earn little or no money. (I
kept trying to turn the page, but it was the last
one)

Germs: Like unknown wealthy relatives, they’ll
squabble. It’s a snare. The godly and god-like are
immune at this stage (I’m not immune). It was
said how the people of one particular African
city jealously guard their reputation for ill
health, for the pallid face.

Venn Diagram: (these sum up my exposure to
science) The overlap between model (me) and
modeler (you) is fast asleep on the couch.
Eros: They say Eros is some kind of god who
lives in the woods and comes out, once a year, to
see how we’re doing. (YES)

Valerie Fox’s books include The Rorschach Factory (Straw Gate Books, 2006), and Bundles of
Letters Including A, V and Epsilon (Texture Press, 2008), co-written with Arlene Ang. Her poems
have appeared in The World, Hanging Loose, sonaweb, West Branch, Phoebe, Poems Niederngasse,
5 trope, Feminist Studies and other journals. She lives in New Jersey with her husband and
daughter.

53

Missing One
by Richard Garcia

Missing one is not like paper or snow. Not the gray of what you wanted to say but did not. You lay
missing one on the table. Pick up strawberry and sweet talk. But face it, missing one suits you.
Youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve always been missing one. The one no one remembers in the photograph.
Some say missing one is almost clear but slightly tinted white. That there are many like it. That
there is even a missing two and a missing three.
But Manuel, the housepainter, given to superstition, never speaks its name. He only refers to it by its
number, -001.
He has learned to ignore the elastic holes he sees opening and closing in the air whenever he pries
open a gallon of missing one. He knows better than to believe what his senses tell him: no matter
how appealing, missing one does not really smell like banana milkshake.
He wonders if missing one has a sound. Would it be like the coin dropped into the abandoned mine
shaft at Los Pozos, Mexico? A deep, deep hole inside a cave? No guard railing, no ladder?
You toss a peso into the darkness and wait. And wait.

54

Richard Garcia is the author of The Persistence of Objects (BOA Editions, 2006).
His poems have recently appeared in The Georgia Review, Crazyhorse and Ploughshares.
Chickenhead, a chapbook of prose poems, is forthcoming from Foothills Press. His website is
www.richardgarcia.info.
Glenn Capers says, "Photo communication has become a photo journal; it captures the soul
of man and his purpose of finding an ever adjusting balance of existence between commercial
aspects and the spiritual realization one learns from great documentation connected to needs of
man expressed as editorial and photo illustration." Glenn likes to capture travel and lifestyle and
document nature, landscapes and industry. Contact: glenzilla@mac.com.

southwest by glenn capers

55

Addiction
By Arlene Ang

Prying open the cat’s mouth. Over and over, the ceiling fan magnifies Carla. Her knuckles
have been rounded off by scratches.
Ferguson swings his flashlight into the cat’s throat. I saw a documentary on mammoths once.
One woman pretending she was looking at the real thing inside the iceberg.
How safe do you think it is in there?
Everything diminishes in time. Father gave it fish heads to study the process of choking. He
had this house all to himself. This cat was all he coveted.
And it survived him.
Yes. Like a love letter.
Ferguson smells her fingers as they disappear down the cat’s throat. He is a foreign object
himself. The look on his face may be the beginning of the universe or a dirty word.
Outside, the whispering trees quiver reproductions of drizzle. If she fades into the wallpaper,
will he find the correct heroin to take her into a picture of his father?

Arlene Ang lives in Spinea, Italy. She is the recipient of The 2006 Frogmore Poetry Prize
and serves as a poetry editor for The Pedestal Magazine and Press 1. Her chapbook, Secret
Love Poems, is available from Rubicon Press. More of her writing may be viewed at www.
leafscape.org.

56

Merlin’s Fiddle by Ahyicodae

Ahyicodae is an aspiring writer
and artist who is far less creative
than her name. In fact she’s a bit
boring. The bloke with the fiddle is
much more interesting. His name is
Merlin, and he lived with Ahyicodae
for sixteen years until his unfortunate
demise from kidney failure. He was
very talented for a cat, though a bit of
a harsh critic. As for his boring owner
– she recently finished her creative
writing MA, enjoys writing fiction,
creative nonfiction, and children’s
fiction, and still grieves for her lost
critic.

57

The Official Miss de Bourgh Letter to Stalkers
By Arlene Ang

Ah. I know you vaguely by your prison terms.
Breaking and entering, they say, adds grit to the floor plan.
Certainly, afternoons rank high among funerals.
Did you really bury my pet radio in the Greater Cincinnati area?
Ever since October 5th, I’ve thought of nothing else.
First, they correct my grammar. Now you want the kitty litter.
Greed sets an all too-human activity. Like wearing make-up.
How long does it take you to wear out your cell in a dream?
I wake up, and the mascara on my power tools turns green.
Just when I thought it was safe to drink from the fishbowl.
Ketchup is the only religion. But you didn’t get that from me.
Last night, I cut up your longer sentences to make fancy paper dolls.
Minor crimes, in the old days, led to minor saints.
Naturally, the cat vomit becomes the carpet, the foot diva.
Off the record, I admit my fake Welsh accent isn’t a good fake.
Pubic and public eventually end up with the wrong noun.
Quacks, for one, and acrylic paint lowlight bad postures.
Reeking of cough drops, you’re not exactly my man Friday.
Still, it bothers me when they say we look exactly alike.
They also say imagination gives any letter its look of love.
Under the bench, a hairball asking the wind for some change.
Vacuuming may be part of my act, but it’s not jewelry.
Wait. Some words from my sponsor: Flavia’s Music Bar.
Xenolithic shadows will crawl your piano light years away.
You asked what I had to do to get this far in life:
Zoo-keep. Pile shit. Walk into cages. Like me. Like you.

58

Girl on the N0. 17 Bus by Mario Scattoloni

59

Attract Shun by Cheryl Hicks

Cheryl Hicks has had her poetry and creative nonfiction published extensively

and internationally. Most recently her work appears in Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review,
Shakespeareâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Monkey Review and Families: The Frontline of Pluralism. Hicks currently teaches
journalism, photography and creative writing at the secondary level and is also a visual artist. Her
art has been shown across Texas and in New York, and her collages have appeared in Anti- and
Creative Soup. Her mixed media work will be featured at the Fort Worth Contemporary in July.
Her work is showcased at the Image Warehouse in Athens, Texas.

60

Sum Times by Cheryl Hicks

61

Chorus Whine by Cheryl Hicks

62

An Arrangement of People and Things
By Gretchen Clark

The Survival
The painted, red-haired one with the seagreen eyes staring back at her on the museum
wall, this is what she sees:
A giant crystal ball. A clear world populated
by a doctor, a skeleton, bubbles, naked women, a
dog, an Indian with an ax, a cross, sands of time,
a blackboard with equations, a lightening bolt,
and Picasso’s Dream painted on a shield.
The blond-haired one with the deep-sea blue
eyes, this is what I know:

artwork coloring the walls, don’t have a drugfree mother to make them mashed potatoes,
don’t have a crimson kiss on their forehead that
whispers love you as they fall into sleep.
The girls’ House Manager/Interim Mother
takes me into the kitchen where I will set up for
my Saturday morning art classes. She tells me
about a girl who has gained twenty pounds in
two months. The Interim Mother says this girl
just loves food. I don’t say anything, but I think
the food is trying to fill a giant dark pit in her
because she don’t have.

I used to want to know the answer to that
question. Before, I would have wondered:
animal, vegetable, mineral, human heart,
carnival? It was all about ripping it open—
package, person, problem—and digging in.

In this painting by Philip C. Curtis, there are no
babies, only high chairs overturned, bleached out
and broken, lying in a barren, desert landscape.
In this living room, there is a baby but no high
chair. She plays with the handle of a toothbrush,
biting down hard on its green plastic finger. I ask
her mother her name. “Tiaret,” she says.
I’m not here for this little girl but for the
other girls, the girls who don’t have a home, don’t
have a father they can trust, don’t have their

In this painting by Philip C. Curtis, men in
tan suits, top hats and stilts are standing before
a cerulean blue sky. They all hold bubble-gum
colored boxes in front of them begging you to ask,
“What’s inside?”

But doctors holding folders close to their
chests don’t make me curious. I sit with dread at
the edge of an exam table to hear their “findings”
as they point sanitized fingers to what they see
in the test. I’m not eager to dive into this Book
of Me. I fear El Greco’s clouds, full of thunder,
hiding in those tan folders. I don’t want to be
rained on or struck down by these white coats

>
63

leaning against white walls who are too eager to
answer the question: “What’s wrong?”
Fish and Sky
Curtis has painted the sky grey, overcast. Tall,
white mountains are spotted with black polka
dots and rest in the background. Iridescent fish
swim along the bottom of this lake.
They remind me of a hologram cover from a
National Geographic magazine, one of hundreds
in my Father’s vast collection, their bright sun
spines beaming on the bookcase, between art
books, sea travelogues, Harvard classics, and
poetry.
My Father taught me how to fish.
He took me out on a small motor boat,
showed me how to mold the neon-dyed bait
onto silver hooks, how to cast my line, how to
be patient until the slightest tug, how to eye the
end of the pole as it curved, and how to hold
myself steady as I reeled one in.
My Father taught me how to fish.
The lights were yellow. The ceiling was high.
White paper dotted with black text shimmered
along the walls. The library, this ocean, dazzled
me by the neon-bright covers; one bite, cracked
and inside, and I was hooked.

Escape
This Curtis oil painting is titled, Escape. The
wind is white and there are pink birds flying. The
girl has dark hair and large eyes. Behind her,
bolts of yellow, blue, green and purple fabrics are
staked to the ground and look like sails on a ship.
I would title this moment: Captive. It seems
fitting because in this all-too-real moment my
running shoes are tied tight but I’m running
nowhere. Behind me, a sheet is laid out, giving
the false impression of rest.
But I’m not about to be tucked in, to take a
little nap, to slip off into a dream vivid and fun
as a Picasso. Nothing touches me in the CT
scanner, and it doesn’t take long. Still. It hurts.
These films that my doctors have been collecting
for the past ten months are viewed carefully.
They watch for conflict, the scary part of my
body story.
I close my eyes and long for that Footloose
finish. I want Kevin Bacon to meet me on the
front porch. To have him take my hand and tell
me, You’re well. I want the dance in the barn that
follows, the one with the glitter rain, the silver
stars on the walls, and the string of star lights.
I want to kick my feet through the balloons
dotting the floor.
I want the end, the happy. Because I don’t
have.

Gretchen Clark holds a B.A. in English Literature. She co-teaches an online Lyric Essay course at
Writers.com. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Literary Mama, Hip Mama, Skirt, Blood Lotus,
Flashquake, Foliate Oak, and Word Riot. She can be reached at: prettylizard_2000@yahoo.com.

64

Ella Preggers with Dolphin by Mario Scattoloni

65

are we the sea by Peter Schwartz

66

Peter Schwartz is a painter,
poet and writer. He’s also an
associate art editor for Mad
Hatters’ Review and Dogzplot.
His artwork can be seen all over
the internet but specifically at:
www.sitrahahra.com.
He’s had hundreds of paintings,
poems, and stories published
both online and in print and
is constantly submitting new
work as if his very life depended
on it. His last show was at the
Amsterdam Whitney Gallery
in Chelsea NYC and went well
enough for them to invite him
back. Contact:
pupil@watchtheeye.com.

67

Photo Op

By Thomas Cooper
They left the famous singer's mansion and were on the road again, heading out of Florida for the
last time. The boy was chalky-faced with fevered eyes and said he had a stomach cramp. The mother
pulled into a rest stop, and she watched the boy make a beeline for the restroom.
When the boy returned, his baseball cap was darkened with sweat, and the mother could hear the
rattle of his labored breath.
"God, I should have never let you have all that cake and lobster," she said and buckled him in. Her
hand brushed against his chest. She felt his heart beating like some skittish wind-up toy. "Are you
going to be okay?" she asked. "Do we need to stop somewhere for the night?"
"I'll be okay," the boy said. "Let's just get home."
Twenty minutes later, they crossed the state line into Georgia, all clay and kudzu and pine. Sunset
fell through pine tree branches and filled the car with stuttering light. The boy rested his head
against the vinyl seat.
His mother made occasional remarks about the musician and the mansion, attempting to work
through the silence. "That swimming pool, right in the middle of the living room like that," she said.
Then, a minute later, "I wonder if that pretty girlfriend is the one he sings about in all his songs."
She didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t mention the final awkward moment with the musician as the photographer had stood
nearby. The musician had given the boy one of his famous hangdog smiles and said, "I'll be seeing
you later, kid." Then the singer's face went red, but the mistake stayed mercifully unacknowledged.
"Were you disappointed?" the mother asked the boy. "Would you have preferred that actress or that
comedian?"
"Not at all," he said and shrugged. "He was a good guy. You could tell."
He stared at the road ahead so intensely she had to ask, "What are you thinking?"
The boy said, "What now?"

Thomas Cooperâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s short stories are forthcoming in Lake Effect, Beloit Fiction Journal, Bayou,
Opium, and other journals. A 2009 Pushcart Prize nominee, he is at work on a short story collection
and novel. More at: www.myspace.com/thepapercastle.

L.Manning is from Jackson, MS, a sleepy Deep South town fueled by heat, hate and
alcoholism. His work is an exploration into the realm of psycho-social discovery and
surrealism. His is a quest for truth and justice amid this rapidly deteriorating backdrop of
modern economic enslaved corporate catastrophe. His preferred media are acrylic, digital,
and audio/video. L.Manning is a communist, a free-thinker and an artist.

71

Drunk Outside My Fatherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s House
by David DiSarro

I leave
concrete steps
and stumble
over the walkway
to the yard;
my fatherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s mole traps
are buried
and armed
along the flower beds
against the house.
I relieve myself
while I search
the New England sky,
when the muffled
squeal
of a mole
emanates
from beneath my feet
and then
the sound of my droplets
on delicate petals
stops.

Maternal by Jim Fuess

72

Whimsy is Happenin by Matt Anserello

David R. DiSarro is currently a graduate student at Ball State University, pursuing a Ph.D. in
Composition and Rhetoric with a secondary concentration in Creative Writing (Poetry). He received
his M.A. in Creative Writing from Southern Connecticut State University, where he was also a graduate
research fellow, and his B.F.A. in Creative Writing from the University of Maine at Farmington. Davidâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s
work has previously appeared or is forthcoming in The Sandy River Review, The Albion Review, Folio
Art and Literary Magazine, Third Wednesday, and Ugly Cousin.

73

The Alibi Room
by Richard Garcia

A dog is sleeping at the entrance to The Alibi Room. As you step
over him, you decide, no, he is dead. And he’s been dead for a
few days. He was the stray dog. Now the town will need
a new stray dog.
Dr. Felsenfeld is sitting at the bar. Norris the bartender is
lying asleep on the floor. His left foot twitching. Felsenfeld
sits perfectly still.
He reminds you of a photo you saw once of a bar in Lebanon after
a terrorist attack. An attractive woman in an evening dress sat
with a drink in front of her. One elbow on the bar. A cigarette in
her hand. She looked as if she were signaling the bartender. But
she was dead.
If only the town was not named Lassitude. It could have been
called Lassie Town. Or Attitude Town.
If only The Alibi Room had not been named The Alibi Room.
It could have been called Al’s bar. Or The Alabama. Or The Ali
Baba.
Dr. Felsenfeld steps over Norris and pours me a tall, cold one.

Jay Arthur Conley lived half his life in Texas, half in South Florida, taught a year in Asia
and is now eating beans and rice and enjoying beauty in Costa Rica. He holds a BA in English/
Writing from Florida Atlantic University. He’s been considering buying a juicer.

74

Oxford Man Walks Through Pint by Jay Arthur Conley

75

Love WP by Matt Day

Barry Graham is a simple man, who writes about simple things, very simply. Look for him online
at Storyglossia, Hobart, Pindeldyboz, Thieves Jargon, Wigleaf, Dicey Brown, and others. He is the
fiction editor for the online lit journal Dogzplot (www.dogzplot.com).
Matt Day of England has been interested in colour and shape since childhood. He briefly explored
watercolour landscapes, but to failed avail. It wasn't till many years later, when his mum brought
home a copy of Photoshop 7, that he really explored. This disposable medium meant no paper cost,
no sharpening pencil time, no letting paints dry. After several creative blocks and 3 years later, he has
progressed somewhat to more traditional routes. He has taken a particular interest in making use
of the old and composing it in interesting ways such as in the form of collage. He has also taken to
'finer' doodling, a particular favourite colour scheme being black and red. He still works in Photoshop
occasionally, but only more recently for advertisement features for his new t-shirt company, set up in a
further exploration of mediums as well as imagination.

76

Too Private for Words or Fingers
By Barry Graham

We walked to Wilderness Park in the
center of Dundee, beside the bridge, across
from the Old Mill Museum. River Raisin
cuts through and dams off and forms a
waterfall. Along the bank, beside a gazebo,
there's a small patch of grass between two
oak trees.
We took our clothes off and sat with
our legs and feet in the water. The sky was
starless and the traffic was light and the
river was rushing over the waterfall. I could
hear the water hitting the rocks at the
bottom of the fall; bubbling and turning to
foam.
A mosquito landed on her arm inside
one of her stretch marks. I watched it
expand and fill up with blood, then I
slapped her bare skin hoping to feel the
thing pop open against my hand, but it
didn't, so I licked most of the blood from
my fingers, kissed her on the puff y pink
bite the mosquito left and wiped the rest
between her legs.
"That's disgusting." She moved when I
leaned in to kiss her neck. "Help me clean
it off."
"Get in the water."
"No. It smells like dead fish. You get in."
I did. I slid down and stood between her
legs with my shoulders and head above the
water. I buried my face between her tits
and pressed them against my cheeks and
quacked like Donald Duck.
"You're so fucking crazy. I love you so
much."
"Do you? Get in."

She did.
The river was shallow. We went further
and further out until our hearts and our
souls were completely submerged and only
our eyes and lips were left above water.
We held each other for minutes or hours
or days, until her left leg buckled beneath
her, and we both lost our balance and went
under. The muddy water was thick and
tasted like the bottom of a mop bucket.
She closed her eyes, and I kissed her on
both eyelids and asked her to marry me.
We walked over to the sandbox still
dripping wet and laid down side by side
like fresh herring fillets tucked tightly in a
tin can. There were crushed rocks and bugs
and broken beer bottles mixed in with the
dry sand. I grabbed a handful and let it fall
slowly from my hand to my chest like an
hour glass. I took two more handfuls and
spread them across her body like a map
of the Mormon Trail, then further, deeper
into new territory, to secret places too
private for words or fingers.
I rolled over twice and covered myself
head to toe with sand. She leaned into my
dick and licked it, then sucked hard for a
minute and a half until I came. I pressed
two fingers against her throat and felt
her swallow the spit and sand and cum,
then she told me yes, sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d marry me. She
kissed me on the cheek, and we both fell
asleep.
I woke up before she did and put my
clothes back on. I set hers in the grass
beside two dandelions just below her feet.

77

words from

on the digital
medium . . .
PETER (aka Art Editor):
I’ll start by stating the obvious.
Any journal, online or in print,
is only as good as the taste of its
editors. A lot of the print journals
that have more prestige than their
online counterparts have simply
been around longer. There is also
the question of effort. Putting out
a print journal takes more time
and energy so it follows that if an
editor’s going to go through all
that work, he/she will be more
motivated to use only the best
poetry, fiction, and art he/she can
find. Some online editors seem like
they’ll throw up any self-obsessed,
sarcastic, snarky, little rambling.
Please understand, as a poet
myself, there is a certain amount
of tradition I am not willing to
throw out. When I see a poem with
a single letter followed by eighteen
semicolons, it puts me in mind of
a rebellious infant smearing feces
on the wall to anger mummy. Sorry,
but that’s how I feel. Confessional,
narrative journal-entry style poems
also get my goat. The craft of poetry
is so much richer than that, its
reservoir so much deeper.
Now as far as who can become
an editor, there’s no test, no quality
control for either medium.

78

Yet, as I said, print at least has
the failsafe that if an editor wants
to publish something subpar, he/
she at least has to be willing to
sweat a little to make that happen.
And I think sweat over time often
inspires honesty, and more accurate
evaluation. I would just encourage
online editors to practice that
same commitment. Do you really
believe in the richness and depth
of the poem you’re publishing?
See, none of us in the small press
is getting rich from our labors so
it’s all the more important that
we take pride in our work, that
we present ourselves collectively
as professionals. Basically, if we
don’t take ourselves seriously, why
should anyone else?
That being said, there are of
course some excellent online literary
sites that publish work as good as
anything in traditional print. This
is of course merely my opinion but
I’d include among those sites: Sein
und Werden, Poems Niederngasse,
Arsenic Lobster, Canopic Jar, and of
course Cella’s Round Trip. There are
many more great sites, too many to
name, but I think these deserve
high honors because the other side
to all this is that the work on these
sites actually gets read. Any print

journal obviously has a limited
reach whereas with the Internet
that reach is potentially infinite.
So I have no problem with
online literary sites. I’m a digital
artist with my work on over 80
sites so, obviously, I believe in
them. I just think that if you run
an online journal you should do it
because you can use the medium
to do something great, because
that medium fits what you’re doing
specifically and not merely because
it’s easier than putting out a print
journal. Generally speaking, I have
more respect for the artwork being
published online than the poetry.
There is some digital artwork that
looks cartoonish and perhaps
lacks soul, but there are also many
legitimate artists being given
spotlights that would probably
be outright ignored if not for the
Internet. Covers of print journals,
interviews, gallery shows, these
can be very elusive goals, and I
say that from experience, having
done those too. I’m rising faster as
a painter than a poet, and I am not
quite sure that’s entirely dictated by
talent alone. I think the path from
being an online publishing painter
to becoming a real world one is
clearer than the poetic equivalent

but I’m getting off track here. I’ll
conclude with a final word about
my own relationship with poetry.
I’ve practiced the craft of poetry
for over 20 years and sacrificed a
great deal to follow that path purely.
I have a respect for poetry that
is not unlike my respect for God
(indeed the two are inextricably
intertwined) so I will leave by
saying this for not just myself but
for all the true scholars of poetry,
those of us who not only write, but
read and study poetry and take it as
our calling: Don’t treat our church
like a sandbox.
Find Peter’s work on page 68-69,
this issue.
BARRY GRAHAM (aka Fiction
Editor):
I hate well thought out interview
questions where I’m expected to
say something smart, and I end
up sounding ridiculous. This will
likely be the same. I’m not so
sure that the internet has affected
creativity, I mean, people were
creative long before the internet,
and they will continue to be long
after the internet is gone. And
yes, that day will come, although
I’m making no predictions as to
its demise other than that it too
shall pass. But yes, it certainly has
affected publication, and I will
not restate the obvious. Really,
if someone reading an interview
with an editor of an obscure online
literary journal doesn’t get it…
The most intriguing aspect of
this question to me is where it’s
all headed. 2008 in online literary
publishing seems like the 2003
World Series of Poker where an
amateur player took first place
and $1.5 million after earning his
seat into the tournament (cost
for a seat is $10,000) by winning

an online poker tournament that
only cost him $40. After that, Texas
Hold’em poker exploded. It’s on
at least three TV stations on any
given day of the week, and any old
knucklehead with access to a home
computer can play and possibly
win a million bucks. The number
of WSOP contestants continues
to rise every year. When will the
bubble pop? I have no idea. Thus
with online publishing, dot-coms,
blogs, whatever the medium,
anybody with access to a home
computer can write something and
stick it online, taking the gamble,

hoping for the payoff, whatever
that means to them. New online
zines, journals, blogs go up almost
every week and likewise, I have no
idea when the bubble will pop and
how it all will end, or transform
rather. I’m not a trendsetter. I
simply reshape existing trends
to fit my own personal likes and
dislikes and hope people dig what
I’m doing.
Find Barry’s work on page 77,
this issue. •
Care to take up this conversation
online? E-mail :
reachcella@gmail.com.

Dogzplot:
Virtually Erratic
by Colette Jonopulos

When the editors of Dogzplot say their lit journal’s
content is “erratic,” they mean it. Erratic allows for
short prose pieces, longer pieces, poetry, rants, visual
art—whatever the writer/artist needs to put down in
words or paint. There are no limits, no boundaries.
If your Queen eats quesadillas in extra spicy pico de
gallo sauce, she’s welcome here. If you’re theophobic
(and aren’t we all just a little?) this is the place for
you. Art in its abstractions, photography in shades of
gray, poetry, flashes of fiction, and longer works can
be devoured like expensive dark chocolate on one of
the net’s more progressive literary sites. Visit Barry
and Jamie and Peter in their erratic world of literature
and art. You will find them eating pizza and drinking
beer while reading over submissions and commenting
on your sketches in the back room of their collective
imagination.

79

Steak and Beer
By Sara Crowley

That Bullet by Paul Kelley III

80

The walk from the station towards
the beach was balm for my soul. The
cold, grey waves and the screaming gulls
matched my mood. Even in the summer,
those waves never looked hotter than
a chilly blue. That sea was full of shit,
needles and condoms, but, walking down
the road, it glimmered in the distance like
something special.
At work, they gave me an office chair
held together with packing tape and a
desk covered in chips and biro scribbles. I
sat and input data from papers into
an old computer. The chair squeaked. My
back ached. The lighting was dim and
gloomy. My eyes twitched.
We called Mr. Jenkins, “Grade One”
because he was a first grade asshole. We
had to ask permission to take a smoke
break. Permission to scratch. Permission
to pee.
There were three of us. Me, Suze and
Roger. Suze came from a small village but
spoke like she was city smart, thought she
was cooler than the rest of us. Roger was
a bear of a man. Hairy face, arms, chest.
The look of a rugby player. He had run too
fat a bit, but you could see he’d once been
handsome. I wondered how good he’d
feel shoved up against me in the stock
cupboard. I told them I was a poet.
“What are you doing here then?” said
Grade One.
But a poet doesn’t make any money. A
few pounds here, then a few pamphlets
published and some editor promising me
more. That’s all it amounted to. I still had
to eat. I took the shitty jobs to pay the
rent. Buy food. Buy alcohol.
On the dot of 5, I wheeled back my

chair, took my bag off the coat hook and
made my way out into air. Just over the
road was The Watson. Cozy lights and
sticky carpet. Smoke fit to choke you.
Optics at the bar, mellow amber liquids
inside them. Ice in a glass, lots of it, and
that smooth, good burn. Like a sigh.
I was shapely enough that I was never
alone for long. I wasn’t fussy about the
company I attracted.
I met a guy called Gary. He was one of
those old punk types. Hair still long. Fat
and middle aged. He had an air of sad
that clung to his sagging body. He said
he couldn’t afford to buy me a shot, but
offered a beer. I took it and held the bottle
lovingly.
“Bukowski taught me how to drink
beer,’ I said.
“How’s that?”
“You have to tip your head right back.”
“Like this?”
“Yeah.”
I illustrated by holding the bottle
vertically, up from my mouth. The cold
liquid splashed down my throat. A bit
dribbled out of my mouth as I pulled the
bottle from my lips with a sucking sound.
“And Bukowski taught you this?”
“Yeah, it’s in his books. Beers and
steaks, that’s what it’s all about,” I tell him.
“You missed out on fucking,” he said.
He pushed me into an alley made by the
walls of the pub and the adjacent barbers.
He pounded me, my back banging against
the concrete, with his rhythm.
“Yeah, baby,” I said, wincing.
Bang, bang, bang.
The alley stank of stale urine, and the
cold air was sobering me up too much.
It took Gary a long time to get off; it
sometimes does with these old guys. He
came with a loud grunt, and I pulled my
knickers back up, desperate to get back to
the warm of the pub.

There was Suze, perched on a bar stool,
some spotty kid flattering her while she
sucked on an Alcopop.
“Ah, the poet,” she said. She thought she
was so cool, so real. She knew nothing.
“There once was a little bitch . . . “ I
began, but didn’t finish. She’d get hers.
I walked up the hill to the bus stop.
Couldn’t miss the last bus. I waited in the
cold, cursing my lack of jacket. Down in
the town, lights twinkled like Christmas.
I wished I had eaten; my stomach was
empty but for liquids. The timetable
showed the last bus had gone. I turned
my back on the town’s lights and started
the long walk home. I thought I heard
footsteps behind me, but when I turned I
saw nobody.
I was quite alone.

81

No Shoulders,
OR Considering Orpheus While Fishing The Chowan
By Jon Pineda

Fins thin shadows near roots
otherwise knotted & thick
with a settled calm.
Again,
he slips an oar into water, gently
pushes against the river bottom.
He feels his breathing, running
a palm over his chest that rises,
quickly sinks on the surface.
This
time they hang overhead, canopy
branches flecked with scales
flailing in sycamore
as one falls
through the small space of sky,
buries itself beneath the broken
reflection, then surfaces, bodiless,
only its head floating in his
direction.

82

83

O Demonia Anatomia by Craig LaRotunda

typoexperiment by Matt Day

84

85

3grl Montage by Nich Angell

Nich Angell, age 22, is a comic-inspired illustrator as well as comic book artist. He likes earthshattering dynamic imagery, sci-fi epics and steam. His massive inspirations include the legend that
is Moebius, Brandon Graham, Seth Fisher and Koji Morimoto. At this early stage of his career, he is
stepping out keen and eager-eyed into a fantastic art-filled world, hoping/believing that he will make
an impact. Check out Sgt. Guntroon â&#x20AC;&#x201C; New episodes/pages will be posted online and in future issues.

Special calls for Issue #02:
- Send your .swf or .mov files. We want good
stories that literally move for the site page.
- Send your Broadsides. Design the art around
your text or the text around your art. Buddy up
if you must.

Open Call for Submissions!
Send your poetry, ﬂash ﬁction/
non-ﬁction, digital poetry, digital art,
photography (digitally altered or au
naturale), collage, drawings, paintings,
etc. Favor given to the experimental
and creative use of the digital medium;
art that creatively utilizes words and
language; experimental and precise
creative writing that utilizes visuals to
enhance meaning. Here is where you
may connect creative communications
as they are occurring across genres
and art forms.
Creative writing should be kept under
1,000 words (submit up to 3 ﬂash
ﬁction/nonﬁction or 5 poems, attached
.pdf or pasted into body of email).
Hypertext should be sent as a link. All
art must be in digital form (submit up
to 3 pieces, high resolution .jpg ﬁles at
least 96ppi and 600p tall or wide). Video
or Audio should be no longer than 3
minutes (1 at a time, .html, .mp3 or .swf
ﬁle - inquire please).

Find us on
MySpace
&
Facebook

All material must be completely original!
Send work along with short bio and
contact info to reachcella@gmail.com.
Creative bios are encouraged (please
do sell yourself); however bios are not
considered in the selection of work for
publication. Submissions are open 24/7
(sadly, however, we sell no slushies).

90

DIGITAL LITERARY VISIONARY

artwork by Nich Angell

We also accept well-written interviews
of artists/writers and reviews of creative
websites or publications.